His hold on himself and his
emotions had been complete. "These fellers," he once said to me about
some Russians, "are always letting their feelings overwhelm them--like
women. And they like it. Funny thing!" Well, funny or no, he realised it
now; his true education, like Nina's, like Vera's, like Bohun's, like
Markovitch's, perhaps like my own, was only now beginning. Funny and
pathetic, too, to watch his broad, red, genial face struggling to
express a polite interest in the conversation, to show nothing but
friendliness and courtesy. His eyes were as restless as minnows; they
darted for an instant towards Vera, then darted off again, then flashed
back. His hand moved for a plate, and I saw that it was shaking. Poor
Jerry! He had learnt what suffering was during those last weeks. But the
most silent of us all that evening was Markovitch. He sat huddled over
his food and never said a word. If he looked up at all he glowered, and
so soon as he had finished eating he returned to his workshop, closing
the door behind him. I caught Semyonov looking at him with a pleasant,
speculative smile....
At last Vera, Nina, Lawrence, and I started for the theatre.
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